


mapping home

by owngoal



Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-13
Updated: 2018-10-13
Packaged: 2019-07-21 01:35:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16149782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/owngoal/pseuds/owngoal
Summary: Rafinha knows that Marc is already up. All he has to do is move his hand, grab his phone. Pretend like he hasn’t memorized that particular phone number by looking it up on his contacts list. Press call. Wait for the line to connect. Say hello and congratulations and I miss you, I’m sorry.He picks up his cup of coffee, now lukewarm, and sips slowly. His eyes don’t move from the TV screen.





	mapping home

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hellabaloo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellabaloo/gifts).



> huge thanks to the usual suspects (whom i'll name once the authors are revealed). this would've not been finished without them<3 title and epigraph from [this](https://www.poets.org/poetsorg/poem/mapping-home) poem!

_"The abstraction of cartography occurs_

_when the difference of parts is blurred_

_and lines are no longer visible_

_and place is not but visceral."_

 

 

  

 

 

 

 

 

Rafinha is used to turning the TV on for background noise and nursing a cup of coffee on the mornings when training sessions are late enough that he can do more than rush through his routine to make it there on time, eyes barely focusing on the images dancing in front of his eyes.

He doesn’t even bother switching from whatever channel is on last time he watched it. He sits down ready to take the first sip of his cup of coffee and promptly gets the wind knocked out of his lungs when he sees Barcelona celebrating the Cup win against Sevilla, all blue, red and gold.

And then he sees Marc. The cup gleams in his hands, bright, but not as bright as Marc himself. Rafinha places his cup on the small table and picks up his phone.

“Does it get easier?” Rafinha asks as soon as the call connects. He can hear Thiago curse under his breath, most likely making his way towards the living room. Rafinha’s eyes don’t move from the clip of Marc-André smiling his could-power-a-whole-city smile as he passes the trophy off to someone else on the pitch.

“ _Hello_ Thiago, good _morning_ Thiago, how are you _Thiago_?” Thiago mumbles, voice scratchy, dripping sarcasm. He’s probably having his morning cup of coffee right before he goes to the training grounds. Shared habits die hard, even in the midst of having a kid.

“It’s different for you, I guess?” Thiago continues, yawning through the first word, sounding painfully like what home sounded like fifteen years ago—when Rafinha woke up after a bad dream and poked Thiago until he was also awake—and it forces Rafinha to look at the barren walls of the place he’s been renting for the last couple of months.

It’s comforting to know that Thiago knows him, even from a city three hundred and forty eight kilometres away.

 _You left because you wanted to_ , Rafinha almost says, then remembers how much _he_ doesn’t want to leave. Barcelona is home, it’s family, it’s _Marc_ and—it’s his place in the world. “I know you still watch some of the games—”

It’s not like he doesn’t like Italy or Inter. He could see himself having a future in the club, he _wants_ one—he loves Barcelona, but he loves playing football more. If Inter could give him that—he could learn to love the team, the city. He wants to.

“You are _so_ fucking melodramatic,” and he can practically hear Thiago rolling his eyes all the way from Germany. “Nothing has happened yet. They’d be stupid to send you away,” he adds, now, and there’s something fierce in his voice that gets through to him in a way he’s too embarrassed to think about.

“It’s football,” he states, after coughing the lump out of his throat. _And you, out of everyone, should know that_ , he thinks, but doesn’t say.

“You’re Rafinha,” Thiago replies, voice sounding exactly like he’s saying _water is wet_ , a logical fact. “You’re indispensable.”

“See, you don’t know that,” Rafinha states, and Thiago _tsks_ , interrupting him. He’s sure that if Thiago were physically with him, he would be on the receiving end of a noogie, or something equally embarrassing.

“You’re being a brat, man,” Thiago starts, completely determined to speak his mind and get Rafinha’s head out of his ass, but suddenly there’s a series of noises from somewhere in his house that sound a whole lot like Gabriel waking up. “Rafa, I have to go, Gabi’s up—facetime you later?” he ends up saying.

“If Gabi is the one calling, sure,” Rafinha says, easily.

“Quit being fucking rude or I won’t call at all,” Thiago shoots back, and Rafinha can picture the corners of his mouth upturned as he shakes his head, probably debating on telling Rafinha to go fuck himself or going into a speech attempting to bring him down from the grim mood he’s worked himself into.

“ _Love_ you,” he says, cheekily.

“Yeah, you too, _I guess_ ,” Thiago replies, pitching his voice the way he always does when he’s trying to mock Rafinha, and he doesn’t even have time to reply before the call disconnects.

Rafinha closes his eyes and rests his head against the couch with a sigh. Marc’s face is no longer on the TV, replaced by the morning news, and Rafinha finds himself aching, not for glory or Barcelona, but for the German man.

The seven hundred and twenty six kilometres between them feel longer than the distance between _home_ (Sao Paulo) and _home-away-from-home_ (Barcelona) right now.

He knows that Marc is already up. All he has to do is move his hand, grab his phone. Pretend like he hasn’t memorized that particular phone number by looking it up on his contacts list. Press call. Wait for the line to connect. Say _hello_ and _congratulations_ and _I miss you, I’m sorry_.

He picks up his cup of coffee, now lukewarm, and sips slowly. His eyes don’t move from the TV screen.

 

* * *

 

They never really put a name on what they had.

It felt like Marc-and-Rafinha could not be encompassed by one word, like their shared late nights were bigger than life, like every single time Marc smiled with his whole face right before kissing Rafinha was comparable to touching the sky with his fingertips.

It really was just _that_ easy.

It was nice. Rafinha felt warm all over, like Marc was his own personal Sun, and their easy companionship right from the first time they met had been just one of the many things that Rafinha _liked_ about Marc. About them.

Now it feels suffocating, mostly because he had a chance to right his wrongs, but ended up fucking up even further.

The thing is—he doesn’t give a shit about labels, and now everything is _complicated_.

The unanswered messages and unreturned phone calls are a testament to that. _That_ being the fact that he’s a fucking idiot who was _sure_ he was going to get shipped off to Italy and didn’t want to deal with the fallout, who figured it was better to just stop talking.

He just wants to go back to when the distance was measured by minutes, by blocks. He just wants to go back home to Marc.

Pick up the damn phone and _call._

 

* * *

 

“We’ll talk,” Marc says, sounding more like he’s stating a fact rather than asking a question.

“Of course,” Rafinha says, a little helpless, mind on some sort of variation of the same loop that has been going on ever since he was told about the loan, a loop that sounds a whole lot like Barcelona-football-Marc- _home_ -Italy-black-and-blue as his hands focus on carefully folding the clothes he’s taking with him before putting them on top of the last suitcase that remains to be filled.

“Everyday,” Marc says, resting his head on one arm and looking at Rafinha with a certain determination that is both startling and nice. “I don’t want you to get distracted by Milan and forget about _this_ ,” he continues, gesturing to the room with his free arm, his face lit up with humor, his eyes crinkling in that way that hit him like a particularly strong tackle every single time.

“I promise,” he says, dropping the shirt he was haphazardly folding onto his suitcase, and walking the few steps that put him right next to his bed. Before he can really do or say anything else, Marc hooks his foot around his knee, sweeping it out from under him, not roughly but hard enough that Rafinha lets himself fall forward, effectively crushing Marc, while they both complain in a way that, later, in Rafinha’s head, sounds a lot more like them saying _I’ll miss you_.

Rafinha wiggles until he’s more or less face to face with Marc, accidentally digging his elbow into the German’s side and laughing at his half-hearted protest, delivered with a smile that looks a little too much on the wrong side of bittersweet. He smiles back full-force, the Alcantará charm turned up as high as it can go with the feeling of his chest sinking in, and leans down to press a single, gentle kiss against Marc’s lips. “I _promise_ ,” he repeats, voice soft, virtually zero centimetres apart.

When he plays this back, months later, it sounds too much like Rafinha saying _I love you._

 

* * *

 

He does other things don’t involve thinking of Marc, you see. He goes on vacation, he goes to Russia with his friends and family, spends days under the sun and nights on the quiet and barely lit beaches surrounded by his people, or sightseeing, visiting new places he’s never seen before.

He refuses to think about anything that is not Gabi in his arms, clad in the familiar and yet so foreign Spanish jersey. Doesn’t even think about his own national team, shelving that for when the season starts so he can work until he’s called up again.

Rafinha doesn’t want to, but he still thinks a lot about Marc.

After Germany officially doesn’t make it through the group stages, Rafinha imagines Marc packing his bags in that way he does when he’s half upset, half disappointed, a little angry at himself—all silent, stilted movements and a frown so deep it makes him look a hundred years old.

The distance between them is three times the distance between Barcelona and Milan.

It’d make more sense to just pick up the phone, now.

Instead, he puts on a white shirt and holds Gabi in his arms for the last Spain game.

 

* * *

 

"I would like to see Thiago at Barcelona again," he tells the press sometime later during the preseason, the sound of the cameras shuttering making his skin crawl.

He’s not lying.

He misses playing with Thiago, misses seeing him almost every day. He wants to see Gabi grow up personally, not through an iPhone screen.

He misses the advice Thiago would give him, wrapped up nicely with one of those hugs that always felt larger than life, felt like Sao Paulo and Vigo and Barcelona all at once.

Thiago would know what to do with Marc arriving the next day. Rafinha doesn’t know what to even _think_ about seeing him again.

"I think he would fit in perfectly with the team's style of play," he adds, instead.

When they ask him about staying with Barcelona, he feels sick to the bottom of his stomach, forcing out the words he had rehearsed ahead of time. "All players want to play football. They want to be where they can play the most minutes. It's the same for me— whether that's here or somewhere else," he states, and ignores mentioning how all the lines of his map end up having that city, that team, as a crossing point.

 

* * *

 

Marc comes back from his vacation to join the team in Dallas and suddenly, for about five minutes, what Rafinha said the day before about Thiago feels more like a need than a vague want.

He deals with things the only way he knows how to: shows up late, immediately spots where Marc is sitting, and avoids any possible contact, rushing towards the table Sergi is sitting at.

Sergi’s knowing stare (which truly makes him look like a villain from some cheesy teenage TV show) across the table when he catches Rafinha staring at the back of Marc’s head just a few tables away makes him choke on the eggs he’s just taken a bite of.

He figures he deserves it.

 

* * *

 

For as big of an idiot as he usually is, Neymar really is a great friend when it’s important. Even if he doesn’t stop Rafinha from any late night impulse purchases or bad hair related decisions—he _really_ has to stop consulting him on those—like, ever, he’s still the kind of friend that Rafinha wants in his life for a very long time.

Now, Rafinha would be caught dead before admitting this, but this is the greatest Neymar has ever been to him, friend-wise, even if he’s being a pest while doing it.

“You think I only talk to you?” Neymar says, unprompted, as Rafinha digs into his flan with gusto. His eyes are sharp, and he’s suddenly reminded of Sergi while the team was in Dallas, which leaves Rafinha feeling wary and annoyed at the prospect of these two talking _about_ him and Marc behind his back.

He _knew_ he should’ve been wary of the lunch invitation, wary of Neymar and his stupid poker tournament.

“You talk to many people,” Rafinha replies, a futile attempt to stop the conversation going to wherever it’s heading. In front of him, Neymar hums, but it looks like he’s holding back a snicker.

“I talk to Marc,” Neymar says, casually taking a bite of his own dessert as well, and smiling smugly once Rafinha physically cringes. “I still don’t know how you managed to fuck _that_ up, man,” he casually adds, merciless despite the fact that Rafinha’s shoulders seem to be trying to eat his head.

“I’m leaving—” Rafinha starts, and puts his spoon over Neymar’s lips once he attempts to interrupt him. “Shut up, you know I probably am,” Rafinha says, and takes another bite of his dessert, feeling sour.

“And?” Neymar simply inquires.

“What do you _mean_ ‘and’?” Rafinha sputters, and coughs twice before taking a large sip of his water glass, trying not to choke.

Why do Neymar and Sergi chose food related moments to make him acknowledge things? There has to be a better time. Perhaps, the best time to do it is _not_ doing it at all.

“Why does that matter? Have we stopped talking because I’m in Paris now?” Neymar asks him now, and Rafinha wants to reply with something stupid like _we almost did_ with no heart behind it, mostly because he’s annoyed. “Why would it be different between you both?” Neymar continues, oblivious to Rafinha’s internal struggle, or perhaps all too aware of it.

“Because—” Rafinha starts to reply, and gets stuck. It feels like his brain is short circuiting for a moment that lasts too long. “ _Because_.” He ends up saying, lamely.

“That’s what I thought,” Neymar says, smiling smugly for a few seconds, before getting serious.

“He’s very confused, Rafa,” and Neymar’s voice sounds sincere. “Sort your shit out and _talk_ to him,” he adds, and cleans off his dessert plate with his finger, carefully licking the chocolate sauce from it.

In front of him, Rafinha grumbles, begrudgingly accepting defeat this time. He takes one last, large bite of his flan as Neymar grins at him once again and reaches over to pat his shoulder.

Rafinha doesn’t know whether to punch him or buy him the Moon right now.

 

* * *

 

The biggest problem he’s facing right now, besides getting _minutes during games_ , is that Rafinha doesn’t know what to do with this new information and all these questions he has after Neymar’s visit to Barcelona.

He feels even worse than before, desperately wants to reach out to Marc—to say something, _anything_ that’s not related to football or training.

But—he’s scared.

All he does is stare at his easy smile at whatever joke is thrown his way, or whenever someone goes after him for those hugs that Rafinha misses like a lost limb, the ones that feel all-encompassing and larger than life, even in their casualness.

 

* * *

 

He blames this all on the winning-after-being-one-down joy combined with the on-the-fucking- _Anoeta_ fact. He blames that nervous bird that nests in his chest every single time he has to watch half a game from the bench for what’s happening—

 _What’s happening_ being a series of facts: that his arms are wrapped around Marc’s larger-than-life frame, that his breath sticks in his throat once he realizes that this stopped being the _normal_ thing to do after a good (or bad) game, an everyday thing; that he knows exactly what he’s doing; that he’s played out this scenario a hundred different times, a hundred different ways; that he thought it’d be sublime, when it just feels like going back _home._

_He’s home._

Rafinha’s brain races with all the words he’s thought about for the past months as Marc looks confused and maybe a little bit devastated, and before Rafinha can say something like _I’m sorry_ or _I should’ve called_ or _I_ love _you_ —Marc’s grip around him is gone, and he’s being whisked away by Ivan, whose saying something in what sounds a whole lot like German.

He doesn’t have to pick up his phone and do _anything_ with it now. They’re just five steps away, again.

He walks to his stall, and starts to methodically remove his equipment, starting with his cleats. The distance grows, yet he can still count it by steps.

It’s oddly comforting.

When he looks up after taking his socks off, he meets Marc’s eyes.

He could look away now like he had done before. Turn away and talk with someone, _anyone_ near him.

He chooses to smile, instead. A tentative little thing that he hopes conveys at least part of what he feels, and silently prays that Marc can still read him like he used to.

Contrary to all scenarios running through Rafinha’s head, Marc nods, once, and offers a smile that’s a sixth of his usually blindingly bright grin.

 

* * *

 

Rafinha thinks about _it_ —Marc smiling, Marc _not_ killing him right then and there, the quiet sort of contentment that had settled at the bottom of his stomach—practically all of the trip back to Barcelona.

The city greets him with bright lights, and it’s when he’s making the drive home after having dinner with his mother that he wonders when his map’s centre switched from a city to a person.

_From a city, to a person._

The thought all but forces him to pull over to the side of the road and kill the engine as he attempts to will his heart beat back down from tachycardia to normal territory.

He’s so fucking _stupid_. All the jokes Thiago made about his big ass head hitting the floor too much when he was a kid and leaving him dumber suddenly seem to have truth behind them. How did it take him so long to realize? What difference did it make if he was in Barcelona, Milan or Tokyo? Marc was still going to be Marc, anywhere they were in the world. And Rafinha would still be Rafinha.

He curses under his breath and starts the engine again, drives past his house, goes and goes. He turns the radio on to whatever the last station was playing and counts the minutes with songs like he used to, and it feels like breathing fresh air after being underwater for too long.

Arriving to the front of Marc’s house feels oddly anticlimactic—mainly because he’s travelled down this road time and time again, for the same reason: to see Marc. Over the years, the visits had stopped being thinly veiled behind the promise of a meal or a video-game night, until he had gone there and stopped them, taking too long to realize what should’ve been clear from the beginning.

And now he’s here, again. To see Marc, yes, but there’s a difference. He's here to apologize and right his wrongs, for once and all.

He turns the engine off, grateful to see some lights still on inside the house—it wasn’t even that _late_ , Rafinha was just _worried_ he had missed his time once again—and takes a deep breath, gripping the steering wheel tightly for a moment before he gets out of the car, decided and steady.

The short walk until he’s able to ring the doorbell makes him jittery, again. Waiting for the door to open feels like it takes both three hours and three seconds, effectively making him grow even more nervous, and yet, once Marc opens the door—in his all messy hair, oversized shirt and basketball shorts glory—all he can do is breathe in, out, and talk.

“Hey, Marc,” he starts, cringing inwardly, willing his hands to relax. “I have to—I’m here for—” Marc raises one eyebrow, left hand resting on the doorknob. Rafinha scratches the back of his head, feeling equal parts apologetic and embarrassed.

He takes a deep breath and starts again.

“I _have_ to talk to you,” He states, then reconsiders, and tries yet another time “No—I want to talk to you, but maybe you don’t want to now, and—” a deep breath as he tries to _stop_ embarrassing himself in front of Marc, “I have so much to say, I want to apologize, I need to -”

“Come in,” Marc interrupts him, not unkindly, as he steps to the side, allowing Rafinha to walk in. He can see Marc more clearly now, under the better lighting, and the sight of him makes Rafinha’s heart race, as always.

Marc closes the door behind him, and guides Rafinha into the all too familiar living-room. The bright-yet-warm light of the room envelops him like a nice hug, almost like it’s saying _welcome back_ , and for once, Rafinha just talks _to_ Marc, and _with_ him.


End file.
